


Thursday

by scrub456



Series: Towel Day 2017 [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Douglas Adams, Gen, John's Missing Wednesday, Towel Day 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 10:32:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10942686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: "This must be a Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays.” - Douglas Adams“Now, John, I’d poison. Sloppy eater, dead easy. I’ve given him chemicals and compounds, that way he’s never even noticed. He missed a whole Wednesday once, didn’t have a clue.” - Sherlock, TSOT





	Thursday

The trill of the alarm startled him awake with a pained gasp, the shrillness driving spikes of agony through his frontal cortex. “Bloody buggering hell,” John rasped as he fumbled for the torture device on his bedside table. Unable to muster the dexterity to shut the damned thing off, he swiped it clumsily over the edge and listened to it fall to the floor with a satisfying crash.

Pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes and panting through a wave of nausea, John ran a mental diagnosis of his situation. Or at least he attempted to. Headache. Dizziness. Nausea. Headache. Probable dehydration. Headache. Headache. Damn headache. And a fleeting sense of paranoia that something was wrong. Very wrong.

Flu? No contact that he knew of. And he'd had his jab.

Food poisoning? Always a possibility with the state of their refrigerator.

Actual poisoning? He groaned and pushed himself up to sitting. Surely not. Sherlock wouldn't. He wouldn't. Not after last time. He _wouldn't._

Hung over? Most likely. But… _Oh,_ right. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and swallowed hard against his roiling gut. He'd run into Bill Murray, and Bill had invited him out to pub night with the lads.

John groaned and blinked against the daylight creeping through his parted curtains. Damn. What had those bastards gotten him into? He honestly could not remember a single thing from the prior evening.

A true sign of a good time, yeah? Not actually remembering. John groaned and reached for his mobile to check the time. 6:48.

“Oh, damn.” He was on shift at 8:00. “Shower or no shower?” Even as he considered his options, he realized he felt a level of grimy he hadn't felt since Afghanistan.

Seriously. What had those idiots talked him into?

He stood and kicked over… What exactly? Blinking blearily he realized it was a bucket. A blessedly _empty_ bucket. He'd obviously had some sort of forethought before collapsing into bed after his raucous night out.

“The hell?” John squinted at his reflection in the full length mirror. It was nothing unusual in a fit of sheer exhaustion, or after having partaken a bit too liberally, for John to strip to his vest and pants and collapse into bed. He'd clearly overdone it, he really needed to call Bill and try to reconstruct the evening, and yet he was wearing more clothes than he'd ever worn to bed. Proper pyjamas, his robe, bloody socks. _”The hell?”_ He ground out again and scrubbed his hand down his face.

He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut against a bout of dizziness, and reached blindly into the closet. Trousers, button down, jumper. He tripped over his med kit, and without giving it a second thought, tugged open a drawer. Vest, pants, socks.

Making his way haphazardly down the steps, his equilibrium clearly not cooperating, John only missed one step and managed to right himself by wrenching his shoulder on the handrail and sitting down hard.

“John?” Sherlock called from the sitting room.

“Fine. I'm... fine.” Gathering the clothes he'd dropped, John huffed and stumbled through the doorway to the sitting room. “Late,” he mumbled in greeting to Sherlock, who was sat in his armchair with the morning papers and a cup of tea. He was looking uncharacteristically well rested and… smug.

Without actually responding, Sherlock snapped the paper open and held it up, essentially ending any further communication.

John rolled his eyes and made his way to the toilet. He'd have to be judicious with his time. Shower of necessity only. Brush his teeth. Ugh. A second brushing was necessary. He really could have used a shave. John ran his hand over his jaw, a tiny bit perplexed by the amount of stubble. He would have shaved before going out last night. Right? “Sod it,” he shook his head and kicked his pile of discarded pyjamas away from the door. If Sherlock could leave messes all day every day, this one could wait until he got home from the surgery.

Feeling minutely more human, John grabbed an apple and offered supplication to any deity within earshot that it hadn't been contaminated. He shoved his feet into his loafers, the old worn ones Sherlock threatened to burn on a weekly basis, and grabbed his jacket.

Sherlock didn't look up from his paper, he simply started talking. “Molly has some slides I've been wanting to examine. I thought we could…”

“I've a shift today.” John frowned. “I told you I was late.”

Sherlock lowered the paper. “Dull.”

“I'll meet you there after, yeah?” John huffed. He glanced the time, then snatched Sherlock’s tea from the table and swallowed it down, nearly gagging at the amount of sugar.

“Hey!” Sherlock glared up at him.

“God, how do you drink that?” John pulled a disgusted face and shoved the mug into Sherlock’s hand. “Bart's. Later.” John could hear Sherlock mumbling his complaints as he rushed down the steps and ran out the door to Baker Street.

Jogging, John hoped against hope he could make it through the tube without too much delay. He elbowed his way through the crowd and just made it onto the carriage as the doors were sliding shut. He dropped into a seat, bit into his apple, and fished his mobile from his pocket. He checked the time, and noticed he had a series of missed message from Bill and a few of the other lads, and then it died. It wasn't like him to not charge his mobile.

Huffing a sigh of frustration, he leaned back and tried to block out the noise and motion -- the constant, nausea inducing motion. Massaging his neck with his free hand, he bit into the apple again, and realized it was only a few days past its prime. He sighed and shrugged to himself. He'd clearly eaten worse.

John realized he must have looked as haggard as he felt, as it soon became obvious the other passengers were keeping a wide berth around him. Just as well; he wasn't in the mood to be jostled or chattered at anyway.

The ride seemed to take a near eternity, but he managed to make it to the surgery with just minutes to spare.

“Doctor Watson!” Susan the receptionist exclaimed.

Blinking in confusion, John frowned. Julie was usually at the front desk on Wednesdays. “Sorry, rough morning. Let me just get my things… Uhm, sorry, just... Is Julie out?”

Brow furrowed in confusion, Susan studied him closely. “Wow, you really were poorly, yeah?”

“What?” John crossed his arms in impatience.

“Your shift was yesterday, Doctor Watson.”

“Wait… No. It's Wednesday. I always work the 8:00 on Wednesdays.” He leaned across the desk and pulled out the highlighted paper staff schedule. “See?”

With concern etched on her face, Susan shook her head. “It's Thursday, Doctor Watson. See?” She clicked open a digital chart and pointed the cursor at the date and time. She looked back up at him. “You don't look so good. Maybe you should go back to bed.”

“Maybe.” John ran his hand over his hair. “I just… You're _sure_? It's Thursday?”

“You were on yesterday, but your flatmate called in for you and said you were ill. It must have been really terrible. Was it food poisoning, you think? Or something else?”

“I think…” John sighed. “I think I have a flatmate to murder.”

“Oh,” Susan gasped with true alarm.

“Have a good day, Susan.” John forced a smile through his mounting rage and hurried out from the surgery. He didn't really think he could handle the tube again so soon, so he flagged down a cab. The bit of extra expense was worth keeping his headache in check.

“That wanker,” John grumbled under his breath. Apparently the poisoning line of thought hadn't been too far off. “Alright, Watson. Consider the evidence.” The diagnostician in him began listing. He'd kicked over the bucket next to his bed -- the one they kept under the kitchen sink. His med kit was usually stored on a central shelf in the kitchen, for easy access, but he'd tripped over it in his room. He'd been very modestly dressed for bed… Oh god. Had Sherlock dressed him?

John groaned and dropped his head back against the seat. Speaking of Sherlock, he'd looked particularly smug, and hid mostly behind the morning paper. With a growl, John rubbed his hand along his jaw feeling the two days worth of growth. Two. Days. Oh, that bastard. What had he done?

“Baker Street,” the cabbie announced. John had just enough to pay the fare, and he stumbled out of the car and fumbled his keys at the door.

John ran up the stairs, and could hear the shower running. Brilliant. He plugged in his mobile and dashed up the stairs to his room. The bucket and his med kit were gone, his alarm clock set back up onto the side table. “Sherlock,” John growled. He made his way carefully down the stairs, powered on his mobile, and checked his messages. There were a few from Greg, clearly dated Wednesday, trying to locate Sherlock. The majority were from Bill, dated Tuesday, asking where he was and if he still planned to meet them. There was one blunt response, stating that John had more pressing matters to attend to.

“Bloody hell,” John pounded his fist on the table. “What did that arse do to me?” He thought back and tried to remember anything at all, but all he could recall was dressing for his night out, and sitting in his armchair listening to Sherlock babble on about something or other. He remembered Sherlock convincing him to eat something before he went out, to have something on his stomach besides alcohol. There had been Mrs. Hudson's biscuits, and tea. Tea. Tea that Sherlock had made.

Sherlock chose that moment to step into the sitting room. “John! Is something the matter? I thought you had to work.”

John picked up the neatly folded morning paper and tossed it at Sherlock’s chest. “We need to talk.” John took a few menacing steps toward his flatmate, and Sherlock genuinely looked concerned.

“John…” Sherlock raised one hand in an effort to appear placating. “Just…” His mobile pinged and he retrieved it, thankful for the distraction. “Molly's waiting.”

“I'm missing a day,” John pressed his lips together and sniffed. Sherlock took a step back. “Why am I missing a day, Sherlock?”

“Ah…” He almost looked penitent. His mobile pinged again. “Mustn’t keep Molly waiting.” Sherlock snatched his coat and made a dive for the doorway. John beat him to it, and barred his way with an outstretched arm.

_”Sherlock.”_

“It was for a case John. In the name of science…” Sherlock fidgeted nervously. “You appreciate scientific explor-” He turned and rushed for the kitchen door. John stepped over to cut him off, but Sherlock anticipated his move and doubled back. He ran through the sitting room door and flew down the steps.

“I'll be late. Don't wait up!” Sherlock shouted over his shoulder.

“We're not done here!” John shouted back.

“What? I can't hear you!” Sherlock almost sounded amused as he slammed the door behind him.

John grumbled as he entered the kitchen, resolute on discovering what exactly Sherlock dosed him with. And if a few experiments in critical phases ended up “accidentally” binned, well, it was Sherlock’s own fault, wasn't it?


End file.
